


Four Days Til Auction

by PilotintheAttic



Category: Original Work
Genre: Character Study, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Freeform, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Sexual Slavery, Slave Trade, mages as slaves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 07:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6744193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PilotintheAttic/pseuds/PilotintheAttic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A study of Basil's life from ages 10 to 22.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Days Til Auction

**Author's Note:**

> I was talking to a friend about the leading mains of my upcoming webcomic, and I have...a LOT of feelings about Basil all the time. This piece is self indulgent and experimental. Based on the art below.

 

**Seven years after Freedom.**

The air is chilly and the ground is much rougher than his bed, but magic thrums in his body and he feels alive as they examine their map over coffee and fishcakes. His long hair is tied in a single braid, a small purple flower tucked into the tie for luck; a gift from the child sat next to him tracing circles around the parchment with a stick. Her brother pours him a fresh coffee and his smile is genuine.

 

**Four years after Freedom.**

The smell of bacon and eggs greets him before the sunrise does. It’s routine to get up before the dawn chorus. He throws on his robes and belt and ties his hair, winking at himself in the mirror as he turns away from it. His roommate lobs him the textbook he’d fallen asleep on last night and he places it on their shared bookshelf. A candle is lit, spoken to, and blown out. His robes rest comfortingly on his shoulders and hips and tail and rustle as he bounds down the corridor for breakfast.

 

**Two years after Freedom.**

He spills a bundle of reeds that morning and picks them up with an exasperated sigh. The golden hum of magic tingles in his wrists and he plays with the energy while daydreaming at the windowsill. His guardian enters the kitchen with some vegetables and a smile and he smiles back without hiding the strikes of light flickering between his fingers.

 

**One year, five months and twenty three days after Freedom.**

“I want to learn.”

The words tumble off his tongue like hot coals and his breath quickens in his chest. The witch raises an eyebrow but doesn’t look up from the beans she is grinding.

“I want to be… your-” He falters at the possessive and hears himself swallow hard. “Your apprentice.”

The witch looks at him and her eyes are gleaming. She rushes out from behind the counter and embraces him, sending warmth into his bones and hushing the instinctive magic that bristled at the touch. He can feel the love pouring from her and he returns the hug.

 

**Eight months after Freedom.**

He trips on the stairs and drops the potion he was carrying. The silver crunch of glass rings through his body and he feels his heart stop. He’s home alone this afternoon but he cannot stop the flinch that shudders through his shoulders as he crouches to pick up the pieces, nor the shaky coughs and tears that wet his cheeks.

 

**Two months after Freedom.**

Everything is burning gold and red and his chest is a cage. Thistles of white hot magic stab the skin of his palms and bristle through his hackles. The witch takes a single step towards him and he throws a plate from the dinner table. It shatters against the wall and why won’t she get angry?

She looks at him with sympathy, and hot anger and fear and confusion roil in his chest. His guts twist and magic sparkles in his teeth and the apprentice standing next to the witch backs away but she just watches him and suddenly he’s sorry he’s sorry he’s so sorry. He’s still screaming as he crumples to his knees and her arms gently encircle his body.

 

**Thirty five minutes before Freedom.**

He is waiting in the lobby, hunched into himself, staring at the ground. He takes slow sips from the sugary tea only because that was the order he was given. The apprentice sits behind the counter, eyeing him with a strange soft expression.

A fresh bout of shouting from the rooms upstairs and both in the lobby flinch. The apprentice looks up to the ceiling while he can only draw further into himself. He feels his body shake and he prays the apprentice won’t come near him.

His Master would kill him for this.

 

**Forty two minutes before Freedom.**

The cart was going to hit him, and then it wasn’t. He lays on his back in the middle of the road, staring at the grey sky and dimly aware of the sound of horses braying and people shouting. He failed. He failed his only chance to end it and now he’ll have to face his Master again.

A woman in her fifties leans over him with what can only be described as a smile and he feels tired in his soul, too tired to understand why she’s smiling at him. He closes his eyes as he hears his Master approaching and braces himself for the inevitable kick. He hopes it’ll kill him.

 

**One hour, eight minutes before Freedom.**

He loads the boxes into the carriage as instructed. His eye travels as his Master converses with the tailor. They’re saying long, fancy words and he only understands half of it. He watches the horse carts and trams and the bustling streets. His ears twitch at the heavy sound of horseshoes hitting cobbles and he feels the bruise under his shirt cuff and he imagines himself trampled under those hooves. It was now or never.

And he makes his decision.

 

**Two months before Freedom.**

He stands against the wall, tail tight to the side of his legs, hands folded in front of him as if at a funeral. Just like he’d been taught. He doesn’t look his Master in the eye as the human lists off the duties he must take care of for their trip. Nothing must be out of place. The ferry must give them a private space.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

 

**Three months and twelve days before Freedom.**

He sees the children on their way to school every morning as he cleans house. He sees a boy about his own age swinging his bookbag as he chats to his older brother. The vague thought of his own brother crosses his mind and he puts it out immediately. What brother? He wonders what school is like for bigger children.

An adult servant tells him curtly that the Master is planning a jaunt out of the country come summer and he must begin preparations to ensure everything is perfect. He books the ferry for three months and ten days from now.

He continues his cleaning and a new thought comes to him. Would he be able to escape while so far away from home? They would be going to the city. A city crawling with carriages and trucks scarcely seen on these country manor roads. He considers the sound of horse hooves and the crunch of gravel, and imagines it the crunch of bones. With any luck he would die before a good Samaritan could reach him. He’d be free in under four months.

The thought keeps him going when the Master returns before his cleaning is finished and lands a fresh bruise on his ribs.

 

**One year, nine months and eighteen days since the Master.**

He has long since given up fighting. The Master throws open the door to the kitchen, where he sleeps by the fire, and he prays he isn’t the reason the Master is here this night. He can smell the bourbon on his sweat.

The Master settles his eyes on him and he knows what’s coming next.

The split lip takes ten days to heal. His bruised hips take longer.

 

**Six months since the Master.**

He is crying, magic flaring uselessly in his hands. The cuffs keep him attached to the kitchen fireplace and the Master’s weight on his back keeps him firmly on the floor. His head is yanked up by his long hair and smacks back down on the tiles when the two are separated.

The Master makes sure he is watching as he burns his severed ponytail, and he doesn’t struggle when the rest of his hair is cut far shorter than he has had it in years.

 

**Two months since the Master.**

He howls as the steel-toed boot connects with his ribs. All he can smell is whiskey, through the thick scent of his own blood that dribbles from his nose and onto the flagstone. The Master has never been drunk before. Or rather, has never been home while still this drunk.

He screws his eyes shut and sobs. The Master is screaming at him. He can’t understand what he’s saying anymore. He puts his hands up to defend himself against another blow and a spark of golden light takes the Master’s feet out from under him.

All he can do is beg for forgiveness that won’t come.

 

**One day since the Fat Man.**

The fat man has already smacked him several times. Each time he snarls that he is to be addressed as ‘master’ or ‘sir’ and the child only rolls his eyes. He’s had worse.

The fat man’s palm curls into a fist and he braces, still smirking.

 

**Three weeks since the last change.**

“I’m not having him in my house anymore. Get in the car, both of you. We’re taking him back.”

The exasperation of the woman’s voice makes pride swell in his chest. He lets it show in his eyes as he is escorted into the backseat.

 

**Two years, fourteen weeks and two days since the Auction.**

He’s been insubordinate again and that’s why he’s being punished.

He won’t be punished if he behaves.

How many owners is this now? How many people have abused and violated him?

He’s lost count.

He’s numb to emotions as his head is shoved roughly into the carpet. Unfortunately, he still feels the pain as he feels his abuser’s body shunt into his own. He cries, but he’s beyond screaming now.

 

**One year, eight months and seventeen days since the Auction.**

His screams tear his throat for the third time in twenty four hours. It never hurts less. It never bleeds less.

And this owner likes to pull his tail, too.

 

**Thirteen months exactly since the Auction.**

He lounges on the white sofa, looking the older slave in the eye as he kneads the material with his muddy hind paws. The slave flinches and hurries out of the room.

He absentmindedly touches the ring of raw bruises on his neck, and feels the faint pull of apprehension in his gut. He still has three hours until this owner comes home. He wonders how long she’ll last before she brings him back to the auction.

 

**Five months and twenty two days since the Auction.**

He’s holding a ball of fire in the palm of his hands, about the size of a football. His abuser stares at him slackjawed, halfway through unbuckling his trousers.

He smiles, baring his fangs, squinting his eyes. A new little trick he’s only discovered recently. He’s not allowed to use his magic, but who’s going to stop him when the mansion is burning to the ground?

He hesitates, wondering if the man won’t crack and send him back to the auction. Another throb of pain runs through his hips and groin and thighs and he snarls and hurls the fireball into the curtains.

The heavy woven material makes such a delightful flame. His abuser makes such a delightful sound of terror and he knows he holds power in his small hands.

 

**Nine weeks since the Auction.**

He’s lost count of the number of punches thrown his way and he’s almost lost count of the number of people throwing them. He curls up in the basement, starving hungry and weak but so, so angry.

He meditates, drawing in energy from his anger and from the air around him. And when the basement door is opened he strikes with sparkling golden claws.

 

**Six hours since the Auction.**

The tears have dried by now and he sits on a stool in the kitchen, glaring towards the door leading to the dining room. His “owner” has guests over and he can hear them laughing over their meal of roasted duck and spring vegetables.

They can’t keep him here forever. His parents will come back.

He scarfs down the last of the dry bread he had been given for dinner. He’d make them come back, or at least make his “owner” return him.

He turns to look at the pair of adult slaves reading a newspaper together in the corner and one of them glance curiously at him. His sharp teeth gleam in the lamplight and he sees horror light in their eyes as they realise what he plans to do.

He howls constantly through the night until one particular punch from his “owner” knocks him stone unconscious. When he wakes up, sometime before dawn, he howls anew.

 

**Two hours til Auction.**

The freezemark on his ear burns and he hiccups through his sobs. The pain sears, as if his entire ear is on fire. He is the youngest in the room, placed in a long row of people of all races, genders, ages. All choking on their pain.

“You don’t have a name anymore. You are your number.”

The worker brandishing the cold iron is emotionless as she notes the code of his mark down on a list. He growls at her and she barely raises an eyebrow.

He wonders what everyone here has in common.

 

**Four days til Auction.**

His brother sits cross legged on a cushion in front of the fireplace, and he huddles next to him. His brother tenderly holds his guitar, while he tenderly touches the grazes on his cheek.

It wasn’t a fight he’d picked, for once.

The older boy strums the instrument, humming along as he tunes it, and he looks at him.

“Simeon? Do mama and papa hate me?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Then, why are they sending me away..?”

Simeon looks down at his younger brother. The corner of his mouth twitches and he reigns himself in. “You’re going to a boarding school, where you can be taught how to use your magic properly. Isn’t that great?”

The child watches his older brother’s fingers shudder around the neck of his guitar. “Why are you lying to me?” he asks finally.

Simeon flinches and looks ahead. “I would never lie to you,” he says jovially, but his jaw sets. He swallows and forces his mouth to work again. “Don’t forget I love you, okay, Basil?”

Liar.


End file.
